Dance Lessons
by Parnassus
Summary: "And, Sam?" Dean fixes his little brother with a warning glare, certain he has Sam's full attention before continuing. "If you ever tell anyone about this, I'll shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be limping for a week. Got it?"


**Summary: Pre-series/Teenage Winchesters - Sam has a problem and Dean tries his best to fix it - on the condition that Sam never tells another soul. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, just playing. **

**A/N: Plotless fluff...but I thought it was a fun idea and it wouldn't let me alone, so here you go! **

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Dean tosses his leather jacket over the side of the couch and saunters over to the fridge. Pulling out a beer and a leftover container of Chinese he plops down in front of the TV and takes a healthy swig as he rummages in the cushions for the remote.

He settles on a rerun of _The Jeffersons, _and contentedly digs into the orange chicken balancing on his lap. He directs a half-hearted huff of laughter at the TV before chasing down the bite of chicken with a cold swallow of beer. He's setting the bottle back on the table when he hears the door to their apartment jiggle open and Sam walks in.

He wrestles with his backpack straps before dropping the bundle on the floor and shuffling into the tiny kitchen area. Sam's shoulders slouch as his eyes roam disinterestedly over the contents in the fridge. Dean hears a few paper containers opening and items jostling around before Sam's head pops over the door.

"Did you eat my chicken?" He shoots Dean a bitchy scowl and taps his forefinger on the cheap white plastic.

Great. He's in a mood. But these days, when _isn't _Sam in a mood? And Dean gets it, he really does – fourteen, teenage hormones bouncing all over the place, sprouting up like five inches over the short space of three months, trying and failing to get people to treat you like a grownup – it's bound to leave you cranky and unreasonable. But at the moment, Dean doesn't feel like catering to his brother's fickle mood swings.

"There's still some left in there." Dean doesn't take his eyes off the television and shoves another bite in his mouth.

Sam huffs and pulls out the last container, waving it in Dean's direction. "Yeah, and it's saturated in your nasty peanut sauce crap."

"You shut your mouth," Dean shouts in mock indignation. "That stuffs delicious, Sammy, and you know it!"

"Well, if it's so freaking delicious, why didn't you just eat your own?" Sam's voice gets all pitchy and Dean snickers when he hears it crack.

"Dude, I don't know," he stifles his grin and sighs defensively. "I just grabbed the first container I saw. If I'd known you'd get your panties twisted up, I would've named and color-coded our boxes last night."

"Such a jerk," Sam mutters under his breath as he slams the refrigerator shut. He slumps dejectedly at the kitchen table with the container of peanut chicken and pokes at it with a fork.

"Sudden change of heart?" Dean arches his head upside-down over the back of the couch to grin at his brother with a mouthful of mutilated food.

"No," Sam drawls exaggeratedly. "There _isn't_ anything else." He finally takes a bite of the chicken, chews, and makes a face.

Dean rolls his eyes before begrudgingly detaching himself from the couch and plopping his container in front of Sam. He scoops up Sam's discarded box and spears a piece of chicken dripping in peanut sauce before his little brother can protest.

"So," he asks around the mouthful. "What's up, Sammy? Why the bitchy-scowl-of-doom?"

Sam self-consciously picks up the container of orange chicken. "Nothing," he sighs. "And come on, Dean. You don't have anything better to do than sit around thinking up names for my facial expressions? Lame."

"Hey," Dean delivers a firm thwack to the back of his brother's head. "Respect your elders and their hobbies, dweeb."

"Whatever," Sam rubs at the sore spot. "And I'm not a dweeb. I'm almost as tall as you."

"Yeah, keep dreamin', Sammy." Dean scoffs but he's secretly dreading the inevitable day he will no longer be able to look down at his little brother. Kid was shooting up like a friggin' weed on Miracle Grow.

"So come on," Dean scoops up the leftover sauce on his fingers and slurps it off before tossing the empty container in the trash. His fork lands in the sink with a clattering twang. "What gives, man?"

Sam made a big stink about who got which kind of chicken and now he's just picking at _his _precious orange chicken like a damn baby bird. "I told you, nothing." He's holding a piece on his fork and picking at the sticky sauce congealing around the meat.

"Girl problems?" Dean guesses, his tone mercilessly hopeful at the excellent potential for harassment.

"What? No!" Sam splutters and drops the fork back inside the box before licking the residual orange-ness from his thumb and forefinger. But his cheeks flush bright red and Dean can practically hear Sam's heart thumping against his chest - he knows he's hit the nail on the head.

"Sammy…" Dean needles playfully as he ruffles his little brother's shaggy hair. Sam snarls and immediately fixes his bangs back. "It's that Jenna Harington, right? She flippin' her curls in your face or something? Cause I could give you a few pointers if-"

"Oh my God, can you just shut up already?" Sam's cheeks flare again and he shoves away from the table to throw his fork in the sink.

"Geez, fine." Dean swipes Sam's container of barely touched chicken off the table and flops back on the couch. He folds his legs on the coffee table and fishes out a piece of the gooey orange-coated meat with his fingers as his eyes settle disinterestedly on the TV.

If everything was really _fine_ Sam would've dug his homework folder out of his backpack and right about now the little geek should already have his nose buried in a book. Except Sam's puttering around the kitchen pretending to be busy. He washes the silverware and extra dishes and takes forever drying them and Dean listens as Sam methodically returns them to their respective cabinets. He washes his hands three different times and Dean mentally rolls his eyes – now Sam's just stalling and it's getting obnoxious.

Dean keeps his eyes glued to the television and pretends not to notice when Sam awkwardly settles himself on the couch. He twiddles his thumbs and picks at a stray thread on his shirt.

"It's stupid," he finally mumbles.

"What's stupid?" Dean encourages nonchalantly without glancing over.

"Okay look," Sam shifts on the couch and turns to face his brother. "You promise you won't laugh?"

"Cross my heart, Samantha," Dean intones.

"Dean," Sam turns away and crosses his arms.

"No, no really. Come on, Sam," Dean finally rolls his head over the pillow lodged underneath his neck and reaches over to nudge his brother's shoulder. "Share with the class."

Sam is silent a moment longer before throwing up his hands in resignation and the words come spilling out in a rapid rush of embarrassment, "They're having this dumb formal thing at school and I sorta asked Jenna to go with me, okay?"

"You what?" Dean can hardly contain his laughter.

"Well I didn't think she'd say _yes_," Sam whines. "And I'm just…I'm really an idiot. Because one, I don't even know how to dance. Then there's the whole suit and tie thing. Basically, I screwed myself."

"Aww," Dean drawls as he pokes Sam in the stomach. "Sammy's got a girlfriend!" He can't help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Dean," Sam scowls. "You said-"

"Alright, chill out, Casanova." Dean cuts him off and rubs at the back of his neck. He glances over and sees Sam staring miserably down at his shirt - the string has almost completely unraveled. His cheeks are still cherry red. Dean sighs and decides to cool it. "Look," he coaxes. "If you really wanna go to this thing, I have a shirt and some slacks you can borrow. It's not a suit but it's better than nothing."

"Yeah, thanks a lot, but I have a bigger problem here." Sam slumps back against the cushions and pouts. "How the hell am I supposed to take her to a dance and avoid the actual dancing part?"

"Dunno, Sammy," Dean falls back into the cushions beside his brother and flicks through the meager assortment of channels. "You asked her, you figure that one out on your own, bud."

Sam looks thoughtful for a moment before he asks, "We're leaving right after Dad gets back?"

Dean can't hide his surprise. Sam actually sounds hopeful. Usually, he's the one throwing a hissy-fit cause they're moving again. "Why?"

"Cause if I tell her I'm sick, it's better than going and not dancing with her, right? I mean, either way she's gonna hate me after this. Be nice if I could just kinda disappear." Sam sighs and fixes his gaze on the TV. "She was pretty cool, too."

Dean barely hears the last bit but he can clearly see the disappointment on his little brother's face. He's gonna hate himself for this, he just knows it. But that stupid kicked-puppy-dog look his brother gets when he's upset just isn't fair and Dean can feel his resolve rapidly disintegrating.

He growls low in his throat, pushes up off the couch, places his hands on his hips and gestures at Sam, "All right, all right, quit pouting. Come on, get up."

"Huh?" Sam glances up in confusion at his brother.

"I said, _get up_. I'm gonna show you something."

"What?" Sam asks cautiously, his voice slow with apprehension.

"Just get up!" Dean pulls Sam to his feet, places both hands on his shoulders and roughly positions him on the carpet.

"Dean, I'm not in the mood for a sparring match," Sam sighs wearily.

"Sam, would you shut up? Look, I'm-" Dean scrubs a hand across his jaw and avoids eye contact. Sam realizes that his older brother is embarrassed and it sets him even further on edge.

"You're what?" Sam is becoming slightly annoyed by the vague antics.

"Dude," Dean tries again. "You wanna impress this Jenna chick, right?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Well okay then," Dean huffs and mumbles out of the corner of his mouth. "I'm gonna teach you how to dance."

Sam looks at Dean like his brother's sprouted a second head. Finally, he shakes himself and snorts a disbelieving chuckle of laughter, "Yeah right."

"I'm serious." And Dean is – he isn't laughing now.

"What? You can't be," Sam stumbles backwards a few steps in surprise and bumps into the kitchen counter. "Dean, how do you even know-"

"Look," Dean abruptly cuts him off. "Lets just say it was sort of the same thing… except not quite. I got laid so I'd say the embarrassment was worth the pay off." He smirks knowingly at his little brother while Sam rolls his eyes.

"But…so wait, you really do know how to dance?"

"No, okay," Dean waves his hand dismissively. "Not dance. Two-step. It's enough to fly you under the radar."

Sam doesn't look convinced in the slightest.

"Sam," Dean's growing impatient. "You wanna learn or not? Going once, twice-"

"Okay, okay," Sam eagerly steps forward and braces himself. "So?" he shrugs expectantly. "What do I do?"

"Well," Dean circles Sam with a hand on his chin. "First off, your posture sucks. You can't slouch like a ninety-year old grandma. Stand up." He shoves a fist in Sam's back and his little brother lets out a startled yelp.

"Ow!" Sam reaches up awkwardly to rub. "What the hell, Dean?"

"Shut up, and do what I tell you." Dean grins in self-satisfaction. Sam glares but straightens his spine.

"Okay, so first things first." Dean steps forward, closing the short space between them so that he's standing only a few inches away from Sam. "Put your hand on my shoulder."

"Dean, come on-" Sam starts to protest.

"Sam, what'd you expect? You were gonna practice with a blow-up doll or something? Quit bitching and put your freakin' hand on my shoulder."

Sam's tongue flicks against his bottom lip. He rolls his eyes and slaps a disgruntled hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Okay," Dean continues. "So when you're dancing with a chick, _your_ hand goes around her waist, like this." And Dean demonstrates by lightly encircling an arm around the small of Sam's back. Upon contact, Sam immediately shoves against his brother.

"Wait a minute, how come I gotta be the chick?" Sam screeches indignantly.

"Dude," Dean grins. "With hair like that, it's a pretty obvious default."

"Dean, if I'm actually gonna learn, it would make way more sense for me to play the guy part," Sam argues. "It's what I'm gonna have to do Friday, right?"

"Fine," Dean huffs impatiently. They switch positions, keeping as much room as possible between them. Sam makes an _ick _face when his arm finally makes it all the way around Dean's waist and settles uncomfortably on his back.

"Actually, either way it's still weird."

Dean shakes his head in annoyance before grabbing Sam's right hand. "Okay, technically the guy is supposed to lead. But for now, just follow my feet."

He begins a careful _one-two-three_ rhythm and leads Sam in an awkward circle. Sam is jumpy and uncoordinated and Dean has to keep yanking him back into position.

"Sam, you can't watch your feet the whole time. It's throwing you off balance," Dean scolds. "Besides, you're supposed to be paying attention to the girl - you know, looking longingly at her and shit."

Sam shakes his hand out of Dean's grasp and wipes the sweaty palm on his jeans. "Dean, if I can get through the night without breaking her toes, I'll consider it a success. Forget trying to be romantic."

"Good point," Dean concedes before grappling Sam's hand back in his own and starting the process over again. Sam's head bounces up and down as he alternates his gaze between his feet and Dean's chin. Dean rolls his eyes at his little brother's attempt to take direction.

"Well now you just look like a damn bobble head," he huffs.

"I'm trying, okay?" Sam growls at the ceiling. "I just…I'm not good at this."

"You think? That's why we're practicing, dumbass," Dean grins. "Look, why don't you try just looking over my shoulder? Might help with the coordination. You're thinking about it too much."

Five minutes later, Dean is nearly at the end of his rapidly fraying rope. "Dammit, Sam!" he hollers when Sam's foot smashes on top of his toes for the fourth time. He rubs his injured foot and hops unsteadily on the other. Sam apologizes, completely embarrassed, and slumps down on the couch.

"Look," he mutters. "Just forget it all right? This is stupid." Frustrated, Sam places his elbows on his knees and runs his hands through his hair.

Dean takes a few breaths, trying to calm himself and gestures for Sam to get up.

"No, no," When his brother doesn't comply, he braces a hand behind Sam's neck and tugs him off the couch. "You'll get it. Come on, let's try it again."

"Dean," Sam sighs. "Do _you _want to have toes after today?"

"They'll live, dude," Dean insists. His forehead pinches in consideration. "Maybe if we try it with music?" He resumes his position and Sam reluctantly clasps his offered hand.

"Dean, we don't have-"

Dean ignores his little brother. He begins the steps again, urging Sam to follow. This time, he increases the rhythm and speed to keep time with _Heard It Through the Grapevine_ as he hums the tune low in the back of his throat.

Sam still looks frustrated but Dean just hums louder and his little brother has no choice but to follow his lead. Eventually, they settle into a comfortable pattern with Sam only missing a few steps every once in a while.

"See?" Dean stops humming long enough to grin down victoriously at his brother.

Sam, who seemed to have momentarily lost himself in the rhythm of the steps, looks up and smiles excitedly.

"Hey, I'm doing it!"

Dean laughs and nods his head, "Yeah, and check it out – my foots not even broken yet."

"Shut up," Sam retorts good-naturedly as he pulls away to catch his breath. Dean goes to grab another beer out of the fridge. He pops the cap and gulps loudly before tossing Sam a water bottle.

"We're done?" Sam sounds almost disappointed.

"Yeah," Dean finishes off his beer and tosses the bottle in the garbage. "I think you got it, dude. Told you it was simple."

"But what if I freeze up when-"

"You won't," Dean insists. "S'like riding a bike."

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, trusting that Dean knows what he's talking about.

"And, Sam?" Dean fixes his little brother with a warning glare, certain he has Sam's full attention before continuing. "If you ever tell _anyone _about this, I'll shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be limping for a week. Got it?"

Sam nods quickly, realizing it's not an empty threat before reassuring, "Dean, why would I ever _want _to tell anyone about this?"

"Haven't the slightest, but I'm just telling _you_ – don't."

Sam nods again, hoists his backpack off the floor and drops it on the kitchen table. He sits down, unzips the bag and begins rummaging through the contents, finally pulling out a gigantic hardcover textbook.

Dean shakes his head and smiles to himself. All's right with the world again - at least until Sam stops reading and starts thinking again about everything that could go wrong at the formal.

Suddenly, Dean's very aware of what he's been doing for the past three and a half hours. He grimaces, shakes himself and slaps Sam's shoulder.

"Okay, well…I'm gonna go shoot a gun or something. Try and reclaim some of my manhood."

"Good luck," Sam hollers over his shoulder. _The little shit. _Dean retraces his steps and lightly pushes his little brother's head down towards the pages.

"Shut up and read your book, bitch."

Sam shoves Dean's hand off his head and tries to swing a punch into his gut. He misses and Dean chuckles as he retreats into their bedroom. Just as he's closing the door, a couch pillow sails through the frame and smacks him in the face. He growls and spits out lint, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

Sam's doubled at the waist, laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath. Mischievous dimples peek through his cheeks as he holds his stomach and points at Dean.

"Oh, you're so dead, little brother."

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**Thanks for reading! If you have a moment I'd love to hear what you thought :)**

**~P**


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